Without Hope
by Skrain Dukat
Summary: Bashir/Garak. Takes place early in the Dominion war. Bashir is captured and when he won't give up any information, he's tortured and his life is threatened. Will Garak and Starfleet be able to save him in time?
1. Chapter 1

It was something he had known was a possibility when he'd joined Starfleet. In the event of war, there was always a chance of being taken prisoner. Sure, it was generally a slim chance, but it still loomed over their heads. Now it had happened, and what was worse was nobody knew.

Julian Bashir sat in a chair in the center of a room. There was only one light, directly overhead and blinding. His hands were bound behind him. In the shadows he could make out 10, maybe 15 Cardassians, a Vorta, and a changeling, the female one. His head felt as though it had been trampled.

"Garak," he whispered. Nobody but the Vorta seemed to notice the utterance, but the Vorta, Weyoun, wasn't known for keeping things to himself. Bashir had been en route to Deep Space Nine from the Gamma Quadrant when the runabout he'd been on had been attacked and the two other officers onboard had been killed.

"Doctor… Bashir, is it?" Julian heard an all-too-familiar voice ask. He squinted against the light and saw the Vorta step into the light, a look of genuine concern on his face. He decided at that moment that he wouldn't trust him.

"My name is Julian Bashir. My rank is-"

"Yes, yes, we've all heard the chant before," Weyoun interrupted, waving his hand in dismissal, "I do hope you'll be more cooperative. I know Sisko is rather fond of you."

_Is that a threat?_ He thought. He took a painful breath and started again, "My rank is Chief Medical Officer of Deep Spa-GHAAGH!" Something hit him in the ribs, hard enough that he heard a crack. The chair fell sideways, smashing his left arm under the heavy metal frame. He whimpered pitifully, pain overloading his brain.

"Cooperate or silence," a gruff voice he'd never heard before ordered. Rough hands, six of them, pulled him back up, setting the chair upright. Julian squirmed, his internal organs felt like they were on fire. In the periphery of his mind, he registered that Weyoun was talking again, but there wasn't enough brainpower not taken over by the immense pain to process what he was saying.

The Vorta's face was suddenly dangerously close to his own, and Julian nearly toppled over backwards in surprise.

"What was your business in the Gamma Quadrant?" Weyoun asked. His voice was cold and Bashir suspected that if he didn't answer in a way that pleased the Vorta, he'd likely be in even worse pain. But to answer would be to give up classified information, and that was something he was not willing to do.

"M-My name is Julian Bashir. My rank is Chief Medi-GRAHH-" Somebody, likely a Jem'Hadar, was twisting his arms further behind him, further than his arms should naturally have gone. Julian kicked his feet wildly, he was certain that something would tear and his arms would be useless. "My rank is Chief Medical Officer of Deep- D-Deep Sp-" His voice caught in his throat as he suppressed a scream. His left shoulder was out of its socket and he was nearly standing now, kicking and wailing in a futile attempt to free himself. "Chief Medical Officer- Chief…" His arms hung limp, torn from their sockets, as his body slammed back into the chair. "Garak…"


	2. Chapter 2

He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but when he woke he found he was still in that room, though now it was empty, save for himself. It took his body a few moments to register that it was, in fact, still very much in pain. He didn't particularly want to try moving his arms, but he had to be sure that somebody hadn't been benevolent and popped his arms back into place.

As he had suspected, no one had, and the attempted movement was excruciating. His legs shaky, he attempted to push himself back into the chair properly, as he'd slid down pretty far when he'd passed out. Each movement felt like he was being stabbed.

Despite wanting to, he managed to not cry out as he sat back up. He leaned back against the chair as much as he could, not wanting to cause his arms any undue stress. He looked around, now that he was alone he could afford to. The room appeared to be relatively small, with one door off to his right.

As if responding to his gaze, the door opened. Julian fell limp as quickly as he could, not wanting a repeat of what had just happened to him.

To his surprise, his arms were cut loose and somebody was carrying him very delicately out of the room. When he took a chance and stole a quick look, he found to his dismay that it was a Jem'Hadar, probably acting on orders from that changeling. For an evil overlord, she didn't seem to care for violence too much.

His thoughts were brought back to the present when he was suddenly and rather violently dropped on the floor of a holding cell. Strong hands grasped his left arm and shoulder.

"No- n- no please don't-" Bashir begged, but was cut off by the sudden, fresh pain of his limb being snapped back into place. Before he could open his mouth to protest, his right arm was also popped back into place.

A security field activated around him as soon as the Jem'Hadar had gone, and he was alone again, but at least he was no longer bound to a chair. He gingerly tested his arms and was relieved to conclude that there were no broken bones, though the same couldn't be said for his ribs. He was certain that if he didn't get access to proper medical care for them soon, he would likely wind up with a punctured lung.

He sat on the floor, trying hard not to move as moving was the main cause of all pain he felt from his wounds. The cell was tiny, barely enough space for him to stretch his legs out with his back against the wall.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when the door opened and the security field dropped, but he'd begun to doze off again.


	3. Chapter 3

It had to have been weeks since he'd been taken prisoner, and Julian was in bad shape. The starvation diet they kept him on had made him painfully thin. Bones jutted everywhere from his figure and he was wracked with infections from his uncared-for wounds.

They would regularly take him from his cell and bring him to a room with just a table with straps attached to it. At first he'd struggled, trying desperately not to let himself be restrained, knowing that only bad would come from it. He was right, of course, but fighting never helped.

Now even if he had the strength, he wouldn't fight. He knew better. The days he'd fought were the days he'd come out of it worse than the days when he just let it happen.

He was curled in the fetal position in the corner of his cell when the lights suddenly came on, full power, blinding him and sending him into his usual round of pleas. "I beg you, please stop this," He murmured, his voice barely audible. He knew it was an exercise in futility. He struggled to his feet, head hanging down, avoiding eye contact. "Please, I've already told you what I know."

The security field dropped and two Cardassians stepped forward. Julian felt his stomach drop and all the blood rush from his face. It had always been Jem'Hadar that had escorted him from the cell to the table. Something was wrong and something was about to make him wish he'd never been born. He groaned fearfully as he was roughly pulled from his cell.

Despite his fear, he was grateful that they held onto him. He wasn't sure his legs could still bear his weight, despite his diminished frame.

The Cardassians moved far too fast for him to keep up, and by the time they entered the turbolift, Julian was essentially being dragged. Which was just as well, he needed to save his strength. What he would face next would be worse, much worse.

They reached the room with the table, and his worst fears were confirmed. Instead of the usual crowd of five or six Cardassians, a handful of Jem'Hadar, and Weyoun, there was only one other person in the room when they entered: Gul Dukat. And he looked to be in a particularly good mood.

"No," Julian begged, "Please, don't do this." His protests fell on deaf ears, however, as he was hoisted onto the table and strapped down quicker than he could have even considered moving. Dukat moved so that he was just visible to the doctor, just in the periphery of his vision.

"Are you afraid, Dr. Bashir?" he asked, a certain melodious quality to his voice. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the setting. Julian knew there was a table with instruments on it off in the shadows somewhere. He knew it was there because his assailants always stepped off into the shadows before reappearing with some barbaric tool to hurt him with.

Julian's breath came in short, raspy gulps. "Please don't do this," he begged again, "not again, please, I swear I've already told you all I know."

He saw the blade in the gul's hand and knew that his cries meant nothing. Nothing he could do would deny the Cardassian the satisfaction of drawing blood.

"We're done questioning you, Doctor." There was something wild about Dukat's voice.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing the gul did was stab him in the heart. Well, not directly in the heart. He wanted the man to live, to suffer. He stabbed him just close enough that the pain would be immense and he would bleed, but he would survive.

For the first time since these sessions had begun, Julian saw the tools being moved closer to the table he was restrained to, and it sent him into hysterics. He could have gone the rest of his short life not knowing what they planned to do to him, the sight of the devices in store was too much for him. He let out a terrible hoarse sob and struggled against the restraints.

The room echoed with Dukat's laughter as he took a hypospray from the table and held it to Bashir's neck. It clicked, and moments later Bashir was howling in agony, his back arching as he writhed in pain. He didn't want to know what he'd just been injected with, he just hoped that it would be something fatal, and not just something painful. He knew that was too much to ask.

The pain subsided after what seemed like forever, and slowly he found he could relax his muscles. For whatever had just happened, his broken ribs felt a bit better. He was sure it was just the harsh pain he'd just experienced making the other pain feel more trivial.

"Your friends are on their way. Pity they won't make it in time," Dukat's voice was almost giddy. Bashir was disgusted at the pleasure the man seemed to be taking from inflicting pain.

"If you're going to kill me, please just do it," he whispered weakly. Dukat grinned, showing all of his teeth, and picked something else up. He pressed one end of it to Bashir's neck.

"I never thought I'd see the day that one of you Starfleet types would beg for death."

A jolt of electricity passed through the device and through Bashir's body. He whimpered, the loudest noise he'd made since this session had started. "Why won't you just kill me?" he demanded, his voice cracking and tears welling in his eyes. A second jolt of electricity passed through him and he screamed.

"Please just kill me!" He begged, panting. He was sure his heart wouldn't be able to take much more of this. Sure, he was young, but the whole situation had been far more stress than he'd ever been put through. Another jolt of electricity and he couldn't control the tears that streamed down his face, boiling and evaporating before they could drip onto the table.

Suddenly, outside the door, a struggle was audible. Bashir's pulse sped up even more, his heart beating erratically. _They've come to save me!_ He thought, and for a moment he actually had hope.

Dukat glared at the door, and turned back to face the doctor. He picked up one last tool, a laser scalpel. The smile on his face was evil, so evil. For a moment, Bashir knew he was looking into the eyes of someone who would have no remorse for this death he was about to cause.

The door opened with a hiss and Bashir heard his friends and colleagues, but above all of them, he could hear the voice of the man he loved.

"Julian!" He heard Garak cry. With what strength he had left, he lifted his head to look for him.

The last seconds of his life were excruciating.


	5. Chapter 5

Garak held his deceased lover for a long time, cradling the man so gently, as though he could still break. He'd failed him. He knew that as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, trying to put him back together, but he was no doctor. He was just a tailor, plain and simple.

He'd deluded himself into thinking he could save the man. He knew this now. He pulled the man's body closer, sobbing into his hair. Had he just arrived a few minutes sooner-

He looked so peaceful, like he'd lost an eyeball and was now sleeping. Garak kissed his forehead tenderly and very, very carefully laid the man's body back down on the table.

"I love you, Julian," he whispered as he covered the man's half-naked figure with his coat. "I'm so sorry."

Sisko and Kira had Dukat contained, he'd given up almost too willingly.

Garak made his way to the holding cell where they'd stashed Dukat. One look was all it took for Sisko to evacuate the Starfleet personnel from the room, and Garak and Dukat were alone.

"Come for your revenge, hmm, Garak?" Dukat laughed. Garak didn't reply. He just stared at the man who stood before him.

Eventually, Garak knew, Dukat would grow uncomfortable. He didn't like to be stared at. Sure enough, the gul began to pace. "Aren't you going to say something?" he demanded.

Finally, after carefully calculating a response, Garak said, "I just want you to know, if it takes the rest of my life, if I have to follow you for the rest of your days, I will make you feel the exact way I felt ten minutes ago. When I almost arrived in time."

"I'd like to see you try."


End file.
